Читать книгу The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06 - Коллектив авторов, Ю. Д. Земенков, Koostaja: Ajakiri New Scientist - Страница 9

  To midnight now the night drew on;

  In slumber deep lay Babylon.

  The King's house only was all aflare,

  For the King's wild crew were at revel there.

  Up there in the King's own banquet hall,

  Belshazzar held royal festival.

  The satraps were marshaled in glittering line

  And emptied their beakers of sparkling wine.

  The beakers they clinked, and the satraps' hurras

  in the ears of the stiff-necked King rang his praise.

  The King's hot cheeks were with revel dyed,

  The wine made swell his heart with pride.

  Blind madness his haughty stomach spurred,

  And he slandered the Godhead with sinful word,

  And strutting in pride he blasphemed, the crowd

  Of servile courtiers applauding loud.

  The King commanded with haughty stare;

  The slave was gone, and again was there.

  Much wealth of gold on his head bare he;

  'Twas reft from Jehovah's sanctuary.

  And the King took hold of a sacred cup

  With his impious hand, and they filled it up;

  And he drank to the bottom in one deep draught,

  And loud, the foam on his lips, he laughed:

  "Jehovah! Thy glories I spit upon;

  I am the King of Babylon!"

  But scarce had the awful words been said

  When the King's heart withered with secret dread.

  The boisterous laughter was stifled all,

  And corpselike still did wax the hall;

  Lo! lo! on the whited wall there came

  The likeness of a man's hand in flame,

  And wrote, and wrote, in letters of flame,

  And wrote and vanished, and no more came.

  The King stark-staring sat, a-quail,

  With knees a-knocking, and face death-pale,

  The satraps' blood ran cold—none stirred;

  They sat like statues, without a word.

  The Magians came; but none of them all

  Could read those letters of flame on the wall.

  But in that same night of his vaunting vain

  By his satraps' hand was Belshazzar slain.